


"Nothing is going to happen to you."

by Intern_Seraph



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Body Horror, Emetophobia, Eye Trauma, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Murder, Spies & Secret Agents, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26566387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Intern_Seraph/pseuds/Intern_Seraph
Summary: 17 years ago, Arbreura lost her eye.——A Tumblr prompt fill.
Kudos: 3





	"Nothing is going to happen to you."

**Author's Note:**

> gonna be crossposting my gw2 fics to Ao3 from now on, so expect some of my older works to pop up here soon!
> 
> [Also on Tumblr!](https://intern-seraph.tumblr.com/post/629252249441468416)

“Preceptor, there must be a mistake here.” Arbreura stares at the paper in her hands, her brow furrowed. She looks up at Doern, who holds her stare unflinchingly. “I haven’t done a stealth mission in… well, I don’t think I’ve  _ ever _ done a stealth mission. And the  _ Nightmare Court—?” _

“It’s no mistake, Agent.”

She lets out a slow, unsteady breath. “Permission to speak freely?”

He dips his head at her. “Granted.”

“I’m not good at stealth, I’m a fucking spy. I’m infiltration, you  _ know _ this, what’s going on here?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” Doern’s lips twist into a pitying half-smile. “Are you contesting your assignment?”

“Is that going to change anything?”

“You know the answer to that.”

Her eyes slip shut and she counts to 10 in her head. She runs a hand through her foliage. “Are you sure that I can’t go undercover?”

“You have your orders.”

“Mulch.” The paper crumples under her fingers.

“Agent Arbreura, you’ll be fine. Nothing is going to happen to you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I’ll report in with my findings within the week.”

“Thank you. Dismissed.”

—

Arbreura grits her teeth as she works the lock. One of the civilians in her cell hushes a weeping sapling. She looks up at the other civilian standing beside her and holds out her hand. He gives her the sturdy twig he’d snatched before being captured, and she gets back to picking the lock. They don’t have much time before the next round of guards comes by the cell, and the seconds tick by in her head like a timer on a bomb.

“How much longer?” a sapling whispers.

“Just a few more…” The lock hisses and the vines retreat and wither. “Got it. Everyone, run. I’ll hang back a bit as a distraction. Don’t worry about me, just  _ run.” _

Her cellmates do just as she says, with no small amount of hesitation. She watches as they retreat into the dimly-lit trees, counting to 10 in her head, then follows. Her sap pumps hot and fast through her body. It’s pure terror in her veins, something she’s become deeply acquainted with over the past several days. Her mistake had been small, a simple brush of skin-against-skin with a Courtier, but it was enough to get her captured, enough to be tortured on and off for days. She’s going to give Doern a piece of her mind once she gets back to the Chantry.

A shout rings out behind her: “The prisoners escaped!”

She runs faster, no longer caring if her steps fall heavy. Speed is what matters here. Arbreura is lightheaded. She’s not even sure if she’s still breathing. Her vision blurs at the edges, but the person sprinting to block her path still appears crystal clear. The Courtier grapples her, tries to wrestle her to the ground. She snarls and pushes back. Her muscles strain with the effort. For a heartbeat, time freezes around them. The Courtier’s eyes narrow, then they stop and step away. Set off-balance, Arbreura stumbles. Metal whistles through the air.

She screams.

There’s a dagger in her eye and sap oozing down her cheek. Her eyelid spasms around the blade. Pain shoots through her head, and she howls again. Arbreura staggers back, grasping blindly for the hilt of the dagger. The Courtier who stabbed her laughs and laughs and laughs, mocking and triumphant. She yanks the dagger free, her eye slipping shut. A round of adrenaline pulses through her, and the pain fades into a distant throb. She’s angry, furious, murderous. She tackles the Courtier to the ground. Dagger clutched in her trembling hand, she stabs them over and over again, only stopping once their screaming stops and a final horrible, rattling breath shakes their body. She rises on trembling legs. Her stomach curdles. She staggers to the side and vomits up bile. The back of her hand swipes at her mouth, and, her vision swimming in a haze of gold, she staggers further into the trees.

A cry rises up. Somebody catches her before she hits the ground. Distantly, she hears somebody call for a Mender.

—

She’s not sure how long it takes for her to become fully lucid. For the first few days, all she knows is the taste of the bland vegetable broth the Menders feed her and the dull ache that comes whenever her bandages are changed. The civilians that escaped with her come to visit every so often. One of the saplings sits at her bedside and weaves flower crowns for her. Eventually, the Menders deem her well enough to leave, but remind her ad nauseum that she needs to take it easy for the foreseeable future.

Arbreura returns to the Chantry in other people’s clothes and with a hollow sort of exhaustion on her face. One Agent sees her and rushes to her side to help her through the dark corridors. She nods listlessly as a ‘thank-you.’

“Preceptor Velazquez,” she says upon entering his office.

His head shoots up and his eyes go wide. He stands and looks her up and down. “Agent Arbreura! You’re alive.”

“You could say that, yes.” Her eye shuts and she puffs out a sigh through her nose. “I need to be on desk duty for a while.”

“For how long?”

She presses her lips together. Her empty eye socket throbs. “I don’t know.”


End file.
